Too many stories

Too many stories

Every suitcase has one

Squashed by weight

Of experience

Bus stations are

Peripatetic

Lost and found

Cities are just cities

Hungry for fresh blood

There are a million

Blindspots

Populated by strangers

Babies carried in grubby buggies

Handcarts

With wobbly wheels

Show me the way

To Wigan Pier.

Echoes of civilisation

Disgorged from sweat boxes

Fatty oils pooled at their feet

Fast food

And slow death

The stain of living

Draining into the sewer

As the magic is stripped

Back to basics

A bed on the floor

A bench in the corner

A fish finger sandwich

A Michelin tyre

Burning with the fever

Of a war grave

Peace niks on parade

Passing out

Asleep at the back

Heads you win

Tails I lose

Sightseeing is

War correspondence

And tiredness kills